


Various short fluffy things

by sootonthecarpet



Category: Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson (TV Russia), Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: (from caffeine), Coffee, Concussions, Criminal Masterminds, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Operas, Retirement, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-28
Updated: 2012-11-28
Packaged: 2017-11-19 18:33:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sootonthecarpet/pseuds/sootonthecarpet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm home with an illness and want to write fluffy drabbles.</p><p>1. Russian!Holmes is recovering from a concussion.<br/>2. Ritchieverse!Moriarty needs his caffeine, badly.<br/>3. Ritchieverse. An awkward encounter at the theatre.<br/>4. Canon. Holmes, Holmes, Watson, cats.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Illustrious

“How are you feeling, Holmes?” Asked Watson in the sort of tone one might use in an attempt to uplift a small child.

Holmes rolled to face him (having been curled up on his side and facing away) and looked at him for several seconds, then rolled back onto his side and pulled the blankets over his head, gingerly so as not to disturb his bandages. “Terrible,” he said. “And I am cold,” he added after a pause.

Watson glanced around. “You’ve left the window open.”

“Oh. That would account for it. Would you be so kind as to close it? And the blinds?” 

“Is the light painful?”

Holmes nodded sadly.

“The next time you feel you are in danger of being attacked, I implore you to remember to take me with you,” Watson said, leaning forward to put a hand on Holmes’s upper arm.

Holmes pulled the blankets down to only his chin and pouted.

“I assure you I would protect us both.”

“Can I have a biscuit?” Holmes asked.

Watson patted his arm. “Is the nausea subsiding?”

“I do not know. That is why I want the biscuit.”

Watson hid a smile behind his hand. “Perhaps soup would be a better choice.”

“Well… All right. But only because you are my doctor and you recommend it.” Holmes sighed and fiddled with the blankets, then closed his eyes.

“I’ll ask Mrs. Hudson to make some.”

Holmes nodded. 

Watson stood.


	2. Out

Moran entered the room. He had just returned from an assassination, and was walking stealthily out of habit.

“Professor,” he said casually by way of greeting.

Moriarty yelped and threw an eraser at him.

“Ow!” He said as it glanced off of his skull.

Moriarty looked at him. “Oh. Sebastian. I’m sorry,” he said, all of it rapid and tense.

“You seem jittery,” Moran commented.

“Jittery… jittery… yes! That’s precisely what I am,” he exclaimed, waving his arms a little.

“Um,” said Moran.

Moriarty folded his hands together, and his fingers were shaking. “Moran, did you know that we are completely out of both coffee and tea?”

“… No…”

“Well, we are,” he snapped. “I have the most awful headache and I feel terrible.” He gestured at the chalkboard. “I cannot even concentrate.”

That was evident. There was a half-finished equation, and then a bunch of angry crossings-out and scribblings. 

“I did it to try and soothe myself. It did not work!” He shouted.

“Professor, calm down. I’ll get you your coffee.” He stroked Moriarty’s shoulder, using it as an excuse to surreptitiously press him towards and then into a chair. 

“Good. Thank you. You are of immense value to the success of my entire criminal operation.” Moriarty said this tersely, then took a book, opened it, leaned back, and put it over his face.

“You just, er, hang in there. I’ll be back soon.”

 

He would have been prepared to swear that the smile Moriarty gave him when Moran brought him a cup of fresh coffee made up for every rude thing the Professor had ever said to him.


	3. Opera

They were seeing _The Marriage of Figaro_. Watson had lost track of things sometime around when the page, dressed as a woman, had jumped out a window, but Holmes was watching intently and seemed to be enjoying himself. 

As people filed back into their seats following the break between the second and third acts, Holmes went rigid, staring at someone on the other side of the room. Then he ducked down between the seats as if to conceal himself.

“What on Earth are you doing?” Watson asked, already having reached his maximum bemusement quota when Figaro had started limping.

“ _Shh,_ ” Holmes said in a whisper, glaring. “ _I’m not here._ ”

“Not _all_ here, certainly,” Watson muttered. 

Holmes gave him an injured look. “That fellow across the room,” he hissed, “The one with the high forehead and the reptilian mannerisms!”

“I see no such person.”

“For god’s sake! The professor with the beard!”

“Oh?”

“And the menacing gingery fellow!”

“Well, what about them?”

“They mustn’t be aware of my presence!”

“Why not?”

Holmes pulled Watson down to his level.

“They are the most _dangerous men in London,_ ” Holmes said dramatically.

The lights went off. The opera continued.

 

“Say, Professor, did you catch sight of that fellow who ducked between the seats and stared at us urgently,” Moran asked, “Or was that just me…?”

“No, I saw him too.”

“I wonder what his problem was.”

Moriarty shrugged.


	4. Watson

One thing that Watson left out of his stories was that Mycroft Holmes was an avid lover of cats. Walking into his dwelling was not unlike entering a room made of cat hair. After hardly a few minutes inside, you would no doubt find yourself surrounded by at least six of the creatures—he never had fewer than a dozen living with him. Watson wouldn’t have minded too much, except that one of the cats took a fancy to him and would not let him up unless he pushed it from his lap, at which it commenced digging its claws into his knees and yowling pitifully. Mycroft would give him an accusing look, and Watson would pick the damn thing up again so as to avoid incurring the elder Holmes’s awkward wrath.

Sherlock, on the other hand, did not seem at all bothered by such intrusions, and would sit quietly as cats seethed about him, some of the younger ones even climbing up his shoulders—Watson recalled once that as they were about to leave, after wrapping up a matter so delicate he had never been able to write it at all, Sherlock Holmes had found that there was something squirming in the pocket of his coat. He plucked out a tiny kitten that had apparently slipped in and fallen asleep, only waking when he got up to leave.

Cats.

Cats were ridiculous.

Watson supposed it should not have surprised him when, as he came to see Holmes in Sussex, a little tabby blinked at him and mewed happily. Holmes came out of the house a few moments later, and she leapt happily into his arms.

“Holmes, what is this,” Watson said, disgruntled. “I thought you only kept bees.”

“She wandered over here after a rainstorm. She was sneezing, I thought I had better give her a hot meal and a place to stay for a few days.”

“And then?”

“She rather… stuck,” Holmes said, stroking her head. She purred and nuzzled his hand.

“Does it have a name?”

Holmes blushed some.

“Well?”

“… The cat’s name is also Watson.”

Watson gave him a look.

“I was lonely and I couldn’t think of anything!”

“Holmes, you have replaced me. With. A cat. A _female_ cat.”

“Not replaced you, Watson—! She just happens to have the same name as you. Because I can’t think of any other name for a constant companion.”

“Who sheds on your furniture and sleeps in your bed with you?” Watson asked, raising an eyebrow.

“… Are you coming in or not.”

“I’m coming in,” Watson said, giving him a briefly affectionate look before reaching towards the cat curiously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to write something totally different but my cat is sitting next to me and being snuggly and he usually doesn't do that.


End file.
